First time I met Al was a balmy spring afternoon. The gravestones had sweated off the morning rainfall but the moss stank worse than a wino’s yawn. Cloud cover pulled low like the sun was going incognito.
Al’s hands were red with dry blood. Gently rolled a rosebud between his thick fingers, muttered something for the dirt at his feet.
He didn’t turn when he heard the pistol click.
“Not beside Pops.”
“Ain’t gonna kill you, Cold.
“Heck, I got the evidence to. But you ain’t my case. Fuckers’ topped your father is.”
I’m a dab hand at earning favours.